Shh…don’t make jokes. The jesters are thrown into the sea if the king feels bad. Don’t insult the king, or his deputy or his deputy’s deputy’s deputy’s deputy, or any of the men on the throne. Don’t talk about the demolition, the houses being turned to rubble, the bulldozers and their power. They are hunting voices. They are finding the loudest and clearest and the fearless and they are stringing them up on the market square so everyone shall see them and shut their tiny mouths. Quell the dissent. They don’t like art, oh no it makes them very angry. They don’t understand it, they don’t enjoy it and they’ll tolerate it if they have to unless it’s about them. It’s not easy being the butt of every joke, you know. It hurts.

Shh…don’t hurt their feelings. They don’t like it and they don’t know how to cry properly so they’ll pick you up, yes you, the young students, the trannies, the women, the Muslims, the Dalits, the artists, the reporters, and the dissenters. The question-askers and the answer-tellers and those who listen to them. You are only excluded and marginalised and untouchable until it is time to throw you into jail. Then they will grab you however required and shove you in a box.

Shh…don’t wake the people. They want to discuss the temples in the sea and the temples underground and the temples in the mosque and the comedians and the actors and actresses and their divorces and the gods and the goddesses and which one is sad and hurt and how one god is better than the rest. The people are sleeping, the people are gossiping, the people cannot see how the thieves have entered their houses to steal their food and take away their freedom but do not wake the people. They want to be asleep. If you wake them they will still ask about the temples and sad orange men and about which flag is better and who wore what when and they will watch the thieves take everything and they will let them. They will let their children be snatched and their houses be broken and all their money taken away and they will wake up and ask where the temple is, where the temples went and where new temples shall be built.

Shh…don’t ask questions. They will ask you to keep your mouth shut and they will turn you against one another and the blue will fight the green and then the orange wins. But this is a democracy after all so the only king you can question is the one who died more than 300 years ago, and the one that died 61 years ago, and all their children because there is a statute of limitations on these things. You can uproot their graves and celebrate your festivals in their houses of worship and say whatever you want about them.

Shh…don’t talk about Palestine. Of the hungry children, or the missing children, or even the parts of the children, the ones severed from their little bodies. Don’t talk about Palestine, because don-don and Mr. X and all their friends will get very sad and then they’ll get very mad and then they’ll lock you right up where all the naughty children go. Is that where the children of Gaza went? If yes then I want to go there, I want to play with them and I want to eat with them and roll around in the mud with them and race them to see who’s faster but it’s always them because hiding from guns and running from bombs gives you speed like no other. No they won’t send you where the children of Palestine went because even in confinement even in death they will not let you be together.

Shh…enjoy your freedom. You can break the rooms where the people are heard, where songs are sung, where poetry is recited. You can kill your neighbours, you can rape their women, and rape your wives, you can hate the colour green, vandalise their property, break their shops. You can bring back untouchability, be proud of your superior identity, eat your cow dung, beat the farmers, kill the students, send those with a voice to jail and abandon your wife. But you cannot love. You cannot love your wife and you cannot love your neighbour and you cannot love art and poetry and you must cheer when the jester is beheaded and you must bow to the king and celebrate his wars. You can criticise kings of the past and disrupt their graves but the kings that sit today on their throne of lies must not be hurt.

Shh…for silence is golden and violence is platinum and cow dung is a treasure and if you fall in line, keep the gold, wield the platinum then they will stuff your mouth with the treasure and it will replace all the love, all the freedom, all the art you’ve ever wanted.

(The author is a student of law in Mumbai and can be contacted at parulekarpriyanka02@gmail.com)

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D*ck or fist

A Licence to Violate: Chhattisgarh HC’s ruling on marital rape exposes a legal travesty’

The post Shh..Silence is golden and violence is platinum…shh appeared first on SabrangIndia.

As they tell you about the life of a woman, the pain, the burden, the labour, you will smile and laugh because they will package your horrifying future in fairytales, song and dance, couture, grand palaces, fitting tributes to motherhood being the greatest experience in the world, so much so that you will hope and pray and eagerly await this time of your life. You will dream of a love that sweeps you off your feet, you will dream of a man who sees you for who you are, you will put aside your ambitions and dreams and “hobbies” and your individuality to fit into his life and be part of his family. You will water yourself down to the barest bits, till you are palatable, till you fade into a corner, till you are unrecognizable from who you once were. This will be the biggest tragedy of your life.

But it will be grand and you will look so pretty and everyone will be so happy so you will silence the tiny voice at the back of your head, wear your Sabyasachi and go meet the love of your life and leave your life and individuality behind with great pomp and show. At first, it will seem beautiful, this new life. You will love the feeling of love; you will enjoy the affection this man will shower on you. You will take his last name, and his dishes off the table, and his dirty underwear and his parent’s expectations and you will run with them. You will submerge yourself in these and allow the validation and placation you feel all around you, not to mention the warm glow of love to slowly fill the void in your soul that came from who you once used to be. You will serve him and his family in the kitchen during the day and you will serve him in his bed at night. You will enjoy it, and you will call it your choice and you will vociferously declare that you are the master of your fate and that love is everything and family is everything and you will be a willing slave to the expectations put upon you by this “family”. Nothing you ever do in this house will be enough. No amount of labour, no amount of effort, no matter how out of your way you go, you will be considered an outsider that is just doing your duty, and not well enough. You will bear his children and if you don’t want to, he will rape them into you. You will push yourself and push yourself and push yourself and that niggling voice will now come back screaming and swinging. You will hold your child that tore you open coming out, you will love it, and you will swallow the pain.

But the child will bear his name, the child will be his legacy, the child will be part of his family, and you will be only the cavity through which it came into the world, and the labourer that will raise it. The voice will by now consume you. You will fight it, fight to close your eyes to the reality fight to tell yourself that this is still your choice and the love that has faded in the background and been replaced with responsibility and expectation and servitude still exists and you are staying because of it, not because you are bound, not because there is no choice anymore and there never was but because you love him.

You love him? And this is your family. Is it? You will start rebelling and fighting and crying. You will fight and rage and cry, but you will still serve him in the kitchen in the morning and in the bedroom at night. You will think you can say no and so you will try to say no one day, and that will be the day you will learn. You will learn that he can do with you as he pleases. You will learn that whether he wants to shove his dick in you or his fist, it is all the same and it is all permissible because he is your husband, because you wore the Sabyasachi in a beautiful palace, and the flowers rained down and you walked down the aisle and sold yourself to his mercy. You will know that your blood, your bones, your voice, the tendons and muscles and your hands and legs, your back and front all belong to him and he can use any of them as he sees fit. The men that were supposed to protect you, the woman that brought you into this world, you will soon recognize them as the butchers that prepared you for slaughter.

Like a lamb you went beautiful and trusting and now on the chopping block with your spine broken. You will cry and bleat but the judges and the juries and the executioners will watch as he brutalizes you for his pleasure or for his power or for a fantasy and they will let him. And when he has gotten off and left you bloody and for dead, when he’s ripped you open this time not to bring life into the world but to take yours out, when that voice has been silenced forever and your vessel has served his purpose to him, you will be discarded. They will see his hands stained red with your blood, and they will look at your broken body and your gaping cunt and they will declare him not guilty.

Those men that protected you did it so one man and one man only could stake his claim on you, so he will be your first, your last, your only and your first breath was drawn to serve him and your last breath also served him, so is it a crime for a man to do as he sees fit with his property?

No. Is it a crime for a man to feel overwhelming passion for his wife? No. You, my love, were made for this. You didn’t know and the handcuffs were red and looked a lot like love and they were made of blood but you didn’t know. You didn’t know that the only good wives are the ones that die in silence on the inside before their death ever comes for them.

You didn’t know that often the wolves that own our bodies and drink our blood say ‘I love you’ and ‘Happy Anniversary’ and those who say they will save and protect and love us sell us to the wolves for a bent spine followed by a pat on the back.

(The author is a student of law in Mumbai and can be contacted at parulekarpriyanka02@gmail.com)

Related:

A Licence to Violate: Chhattisgarh HC’s ruling on marital rape exposes a legal travesty’

The post D*ck or fist appeared first on SabrangIndia.